


Blind Man's Blues

by smugrobotics



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Broken Dean, Drugged Sex, M/M, Mortal Cas, Rough Sex, The End Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the 2014 timeline. Cas isn't an angel anymore and feels the weight of his mortality. He finds ways to deal with that in Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Man's Blues

When the angels leave, Castiel feels the pull to follow

 

He’s with Dean, scouting out an infestation of Croats, and suddenly knows that his brothers and sisters are going for good. It’s a tug at the core of his being and, for all the shit the angels have pulled, they’re his family, and Cas wants to go with them.

Then he sees Dean up ahead, crouching low and silent.

And he stays.

***

Despite all the time Cas has spent with humans, he never realized the emptiness that came with actually being one of them. As an angel, Cas always had the presence of every one of his siblings swirling around in his brain, a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Mortality feels like all those connections have been cut off at the root and left to scar over. An ache of total absence.

He can bury it, most days with weed and whiskey and men and women. It muffles the loneliness into a dull throb that he can handle with only mild bitterness.

But on the rare nights when he can’t find anyone to share his bed Cas wakes in a panic, reaching out for anything, but finding only the frayed remains of what he used to be. Those nights he calms himself by focusing on memories of Dean. The feel of his anger, terror, delight – all those imprints built up after years of having his grace wrapped up in another person. If he really tries, it’s almost like Cas can still touch Dean’s mind, and sometimes that’s enough.

He doesn’t tell Dean, because everyone at Camp Chautauqua has their own shit to deal with, and where Cas finds his comfort is no one’s business but his own.

***

Cas and Dean seek each other out more than is necessary, and more than is probably healthy. Both have jobs, one as the fearless leader, the other a drug addled lay about, but they always find time to cross paths.

In the end, Dean is all Cas has left and vice-versa. And that’s not any sort of self-pitying drivel; it’s the cold, hard, unavoidable truth. Dean reminds Cas of being more than human (the proof seared into the ~~oldest~~ only Winchester’s skin, even now), and Cas thinks he keeps the last shreds of Dean’s humanity in place.

Sam did a better job of it, but Cas tries his best.

People come and go from the camp, but Dean and Cas circle ‘round each other. Dean watches Cas take lovers, female at first, then eventually male without missing a step. Dean has to know that Cas will call him on his shit if he tries to pull that macho crap. Cas has been inside of Dean’s head, walked around in his dreams. He knows exactly how many dicks Dean has seen, and it’s more than any purely straight man can claim.

Cas has plans to add his dick to that list.

They aren’t there yet, though Cas knows they will be eventually. He takes his time learning how to make people come apart at the seams, regardless of gender, mind always tracking back to Dean. How he’d lick the sarcasm right from his lips, if given the chance. Trace the hard planes of his body and taste the salty slick head of his cock.

Cas wonders, if he pressed close enough, could he still catch the scent of heaven and hellfire on Dean’s skin.

***

For all his limited semi-humanity, Cas still finds ways to be useful. He’s an excellent strategist, and his vegetable garden has been keeping a good portion of their rag-tag gang just on the other side of revolt, but his most useful skill is patching Dean up after missions. He knows the way Dean’s skin fits into place on an intrinsic level, having put him back together more than once as an angel.

This time, Dean is banged up a little more than usual. Dislocated shoulder, three broken fingers, and a deep gash that is going to need stitches and will probably end up infected despite his best efforts. The worst is a chunk of shrapnel, three inches wide, buried in just below his clavicle, deep enough to touch bone. Dean’s obviously in pain, but trying his damnedest not show it around his people, so Cas sends them out. It’s selfish, yes, but Cas needs to be the only one who gets to see this side of Dean, and Dean, well – the less people who seem him vulnerable, the happier he is.

Alcohol doesn’t get the hunter loopy enough for surgery anymore, but three tabs of Oxy sure do the trick. He’s boneless and leaning against Cas as the ex-angel works, soft pain noises occasionally escaping him. It’s slow going, and by the time Cas has tied off the last of the stitches, Dean is passed out, held under by three straight days awake and the whammy of pain killers.

The noble thing would be to shake Dean awake, or lay him down on the bed and crash on the floor. But, Cas isn’t noble and hasn’t been for a long time.

He takes his time looking Dean over, searching for all the hidden details once written across his body. The rotting, gangrenous parts left over from a life of pain and desperation ( _like right under Dean’s left pectoral, where John’s death had carved a ragged, infected wound_ ) and the flawless, shining pieces standing in contrast ( _Young Sam, grinning as he saw Dean pull up in the Impala, Sam coming back on the road and now Dean isn’t alone anymore, Sam coming back to life, worth it, so worth it, SamSamSam_ ).

Cas wonders if those places are still there, or if they vanished when Sam did.

The pills have Dean limp, and he splays out like a ragdoll when Cas lays him down. He’s hot to the touch and covered in the type of grime only gathered by long days in the trenches. Cas wants to grind himself all over the hunter, mix their sweat together and smear the blood on his hands back into Dean’s skin.

Cas is hard already, cock pressed uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans. Before he even realizes it he’s unzipped with a hand around himself, stroking tight and twisting up under the head, fist already wet from how much he’s leaking. His other hand is on Dean, nails leaving red lines in their wake that Dean is sure to notice in the morning, but Cas does not give one iota of a fuck. If Dean wants to throw a hissy fit over it, that’s his prerogative, because right now Cas is more interested in the trail of hair leading below Dean’s waistband. He wants to follow that path with his tongue, hold Dean in his mouth and take him so deep he chokes. Wants to go lower where it’s all salt and musk, slide his tongue inside and taste the core of him.

“You dirty little fuck, Cas,” A low rumbling slur startles him out of the fantasy, and he looks up to find Dean awake and watching. The hunter’s eyes are unfocused and glassy, but he’s trying for a smirk and there’s heat in that gaze. It’s possible Dean thinks this is some sort of dream or hallucination, as out of it as he probably is, but Cas doesn’t care – he’ll take what he can get.

“That’s merely one facet of my – _unnf_ – charming personality,” he replies, hardly able to breathe, because Dean is reaching out and touching him. The injured hunter's fingers are weak and uncoordinated,stroking feather light along his shaft. Dean's thumb is making clumsy circles around the head, smearing wetly as another dribble of precome leaks from the tip. Its perfect and maddening and Cas breaks, grabbing at Dean's wrist and grinding mindlessly.

Dean's gaze is low, fixed on where they're touching, but Cas needs to see. "Look at me, Dean, let me, just-" and Dean has to be a little more with it than Cas first thought, because he immediately meets his eyes. Dean looks half delirious and fucked out, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, and holy hell, that is just about all Cas can take.

His hand moves fast, fucking Dean's fist onto his dick, and then, then Dean clenches, wickedly tight around him and Cas comes so hard the room whites out.

It takes a few moments for Cas to recover, slumped forward with post coital lassitude settling in. As he gets his bearings back, he studies the mess he’s left all over Dean. The white streaks stand out against the hunter’s dirty, sweat slicked torso, covering him from fingers to stomach to chest. Cas wants them to stay there forever, leave Dean marked with his seed, a claim just as blatant as the hand print still burned into his arm.

He slides his fingers through each line, lazily rubbing the come into Dean's skin. Cas looks up, wanting to smile at Dean and hear him bitch about having to wash it off later, wants to see those eyes sharpen with desire and to promise Dean a million filthy acts once the pills wear off and he can get it up.

Instead, he finds Dean passed out again.

Cas shakes his head and smirks. Just his luck.

***

Now, Cas isn’t one to get surprised about much these days. He lives in a dystopia run by the devil - there aren’t a lot of twists left anymore. But Dean circa 2009 showing up on their bleak 2014 doorstep is one for the books and Cas hasn’t been this excited in a really long time.

He doesn’t know if it’s because Zachariah is hovering about somewhere, or if it’s just the utter wrongness of past Dean showing up in this timeline, but something has the last remnant of Cas’ power sparking like a live wire. It leaves him feeling itchy all over, too many nerve endings stimulated at the same time and he wants with ache that’s more than physical.

That want pulls him out to the Impala and Cas doesn’t even try to delude himself as to why.

Dean will be there.

It’s a tradition, one Dean has been following since he first put the old girl out to pasture and left her to rot. For the most part she sits there forgotten, but before every mission, Dean comes to visit. Cas knows penance when he sees it, and this is Dean’s. For Lisa and Ben, for Bobby. For Sam. They don’t talk about it, and Cas has never interrupted Dean’s ritual, because for all the bitterness and irreverence Cas has learned over the past five years, he still stops short of cruelty.

Tonight is different, though. They’re taking on the devil in less than two hours, a full on confrontation that’s been building for millennia. Cas knows that he most likely won’t make it back, and if this is his end game, then he damn well isn’t going out with any regrets.

It’s dark out by the fence, but Cas can still see the hulking mass of the Impala, rusty and ill-used with plant life creeping up around her wheel wells. Dean is hunched over with his arms braced against the top of the car, looking through the broken driver’s side window and obviously lost in thought. Cas doesn’t bother warning Dean of his presence, the hunter likely already knows he’s here.

His suspicion is confirmed when Dean speaks, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be making fuck-me eyes at Marty McDouchebag?”

Cas laughs, because there’s no other option. “Yes, well. As much as I’d love to stick my dick in a space-time anomaly, I’m going to pass. But jealousy is a good look on you, Dean.” And there, a spike of anger, completely Dean’s, hitting him low and hard, like a fist to the gut. Cas shudders and desperately tries to hold on to the link even as it fades. He wants more, and he doesn’t care if he pushes Dean to blows, he is going to wring out every drop of their connection left before they roll out.

“Would you rather I was eye fucking _you_? Because that can be arranged,” and he’s being brazen and skirting the line of a good ass kicking, because Dean is on edge more than usual and Cas shouldn’t touch him, he shouldn’t, but he does. Slides his hand right under his jacket, past his shirt, rests it on the warm patch of skin right above the waistband of Dean’s jeans. _Feardesirepainsadness_ surges through him like electricity, crackling on the tips of his fingers where they’re pressed against Dean. He goes from six to midnight in about two seconds flat, which is just enough time for Dean to grab his wrist, twist his arm back and slam him against the car.

Cas is gasping, and he’d love to be logical here or even remotely intelligent sounding, but that is just not going to happen because he’s been hit full force with Dean, and he may still know how to control the ebb and flow, but he’s not even going to try. His entire body is thrumming with it, and Dean, Dean has to be feeling something too because he sounds raspy and punched out when he speaks. “I’m really not in the mood for your shit, Cas.”

Cas just shifts his hips back slightly in answer, pressing the curve of his ass against Dean’s groin. “Something tells me you’re not being quite honest with me, oh captain, my captain.” Because Cas can feel Dean, hot and insistent through both layers of denim. “Come on,” he says, meaning for it to be a taunt, but it just comes out desperate and needy. Cas doesn’t care, he’s wound up, wanting this in a way he hasn’t felt in any of his orgies or random encounters. He needs Dean in him like he needs to breathe.

Dean hesitates, and for a moment Cas is terrified he’s going to walk away, leave him there hard and frantic, but then he shoves forward, both hands on Cas’ hips and grinding messily and yes, yes, _fuck_ , yes –

“Greedy for it, huh Cas? Not getting enough from your harem, have to come slutting around me, spreading your legs and practically begging me to fuck you?” He’s angry, trying to shame Cas or make this less than what it is, but it’s pointless. They both know things have been building to this, that it’s more than just a fuck. No amount of name calling or porno talk it going to change that.

Dean’s hand is on him, rubbing the arch of his erection through his jeans as he wrestles the button open and the zipper down. Cas doesn’t have anything even resembling a response to that, both his and Dean’s lust racing through him like twin hits of ecstasy, every inch of skin Dean touches just making the other man louder in Cas’ head. All he can even think of doing is to arch his back and try to make it easier for the hunter to work, because if it’s this strong with them touching, Cas can’t even imagine what it’ll be like when Dean is fucking into him.

He finds out soon enough, pants around his ankles and the wet, blunt head of Dean’s cock pressed against him, rubbing deliciously in cruel, teasing thrusts that have the tip just catching on Cas’ rim before sliding away. Cas keens, high and pained, shoving back and looking exactly like the whore Dean thinks he is. Screw dignity, though, because Dean working his cock into him has any shred Cas had left evaporating in a cloud of ozone and heat. It’s almost too much on spit and sweat alone, but Dean stretches him wide with every inch, giving no quarter. And God, it fucking _hurts_ , but Cas will die if Deans stops.

It’s slow going, and by the time Dean is fully seated, Cas is shuddering and out of his mind with need. It’s overwhelming, because as much as Dean is inside Cas, Cas is inside Dean. The muffled link between them is blown wide open, and all the _want_ and _fuck_ and _yesfuckCasclenchlikethatjustlikethat_ is pouring into Cas’ mind. He’s feeling everything doubled, and he literally claws at the hood of the Impala when Dean starts to thrust, snapping his hips and setting a driving rhythm that pushes Cas to the tips of his toes.

Dean has done this before, and it’s obvious now as much as it ever was, because he knows right where to angle himself, hitting Cas’ prostate every time he bottoms out. Cas pants open mouthed, spreading his legs even further and rubbing himself against metal and dirt. He can hear Dean behind him, grunting out a litany of filth and affection. Dean’s close, Cas can feel it in his very bones, and that’s damn good because there’s no way in hell that Cas is lasting long.

He struggles for a moment, moving his weight onto one shoulder so he can get a hand around himself, almost weeping at how deliciously good it feels. “Dean, fucking come on, want to feel you,” he says, tongue clumsy and barely getting the words out around the moans and gasps the hunter is forcing from him. Dean groans in response, crowding Cas even further up the hood, and drilling into him with short, hard thrusts, feeling like he’s trying to fuck right through him. It doesn’t take long after that. Cas goes taut as a bowstring, body clamping down and vision sparking as he comes, streaking across the black and dusty shell of the Impala.

Even through the haze of orgasm, Cas can feel Dean pulsing inside of him, shoved up as deep as he can physically get and _grinding_ as he comes.

They sit there afterward, struggling to get their breath back, sticky with sweat. Dean is slick and softening inside of him and Cas can still hear the echoes of the other man’s thoughts circling his mind. As he gets his wits about him, a slow curl of fear rises in Cas’ stomach, because soon Dean is going to pull away and put his clothing to rights. Soon they are going to go back to camp, clean up, and get ready to face Lucifer. And as terrifying a prospect as that is (and it is, really, pants messingly horrifying), Cas is more afraid of losing this link. He knows, with a sick sense of certainty, that this is it. This is the last time he’ll feel Dean like this, the last time he’ll feel anything more than human.

So when Dean gets his weight under him and moves, Cas reaches back and grabs his hip. He digs his fingers deep, closes his eyes, and for just a moment, he holds on.


End file.
